the rest of my life

i know we used to have a bread machine
& but i'm not sure where it disappeared to.
mom would pour all kinds of things into 
the basin of the device: brooches, lockets,
thimbles, tacs, pressed rose petals, & so on & so on.
the machine would sing like a bird trying
to sleep & we would all plug out ears in the whole house.
hours later a world of bread would be ready.
my favorite was sourdough because of the vast
tunnel one could find in a loaf. i would take
my flashlight & trek inside once everyone else
was in bed. i loved that there was 
nothing to find in there. empty airy corridors
white & clear. i knew in the morning mom would
take the big knife with the angry teeth 
to make slices of the bread. my spelunking was
a kind of elegy-- a farewell to the unique structures
of each individual loaf of bread. i used to wonder
what might happen if i fell asleep & stayed there
all night. would mom accidentally slice me
along with the bread? would they weep as they
ate each chewy slice of bread topped with cold
squares of butter. then of course there's 
the question of the machine. would it feel 
responsible? i wonder if my mom got rid of it
because of me & my dangerous tendencies. or maybe
she broke it with her ambition-- filling the hull 
with all kinds of beautiful objects like 
bracelets & door knobs. no matter what that bread
always tasted like someone should live 
inside it-- like it belonged to someone.
do you feel like you belong? i don't know if i do
but i know i felt like that inside those loaves
with my flashlight thinking to myself 
i will stay here for the rest of my life. i wish
i could remember the last bake & what if felt like
to roam inside. i wish i could remember 
a funeral we had for the implement. is it still there
under the cabinet unused after all these years?
i have so many trinkets that would be perfect
for a long baking: spoons & tea cups & 
a book that i finished & enjoyed. i know i could
get my own machine sure but it wouldn't know me
like this one did. it wouldn't know what kind
of openings i can fit into. it wouldn't remember 
the family scattered around the living room 
gnawing on slices of sourdough bread. sometimes
i open my mouth & there's a postage stamp of butter
from dreaming too loudly. sometimes i try to crawl into
other spaces to make up for a lack of sourdough bread.
i try shelves & the crease between the floor & the wall.
none of the are the same. i feel like i should be
a child still or at least that i should want children
but here i am. i take out my flashlight & use it
to make a shadow puppet version of myself.
he is hungry & up past his bedtime. he will stay up
& wait for a cavern just his size. he will crawl into
the bread machine myself & feel his body
transformed into hole after hole. someone will
come & climb in him before he's sliced
& served with cold butter on his tongues.